by Peter Barry
‘Simon! You can’t still be going on about him?’ She was astonished that he still recalled a suitor who’d barely registered in her own mind. ‘Now he was seriously boring. That’s why I invited him round for lunch. I knew you two would get on well together.’
He either ignored the insult, or else it failed to penetrate his consciousness. ‘Thought he was an interesting fellow, myself.’
‘Interesting … accountant. That’s an oxymoron if ever I heard one.’
‘Make interesting amounts of money, that’s for sure. Sharp as tintacks from what I hear.’
In those early days, Kate had seen her future husband as someone vaguely heroic, or at least with the potential to become heroic; a leader. Also, ideally, he would become rich. Her parents had always been well off, and she had never entertained the possibility that she’d be able to live on or below the poverty line. She wanted to paint, yes, but she had no illusions about starving in the cause of art, or living in a garret. That would be going too far.
* * *
Hugh Drysdale did not appreciate he was to be hung out to dry until he was, did not believe he was going to be stitched up until he felt the needle prick his skin, never conceived of the possibility that he might be marched to the slaughterhouse until he was already there, suspended from on high, throat slit, intestines and other vital organs removed, emasculated and twitching. He was somewhat naïve.
It was like being back at school and being summoned to the headmaster’s study. The call itself was unnerving. The fact that it came from Russell’s secretary, Lynne, didn’t help.
Hugh passed someone in the corridor who said, ‘Cheer up, mate, it may never happen.’ He recalled after the meeting that this may have been Julian, but he couldn’t be sure. He could remember the words clearly, but that was only because he loathed the expression so much.
Russell was writing, or pretending to write, when Hugh entered his office. His ostentatious gold Mont Blanc fountain pen was certainly in his hand. It was more likely he was only pretending to write because Russell hardly ever put pen to paper. His pen was an affectation. The man was more of a texter, a tapper or – his number one preference – a speaker. Russell could really only deal with phones, really only verbalise, in the crudest possible way, the basic emotions that welled up from somewhere deep beneath his bulky exterior. He looked up now as if Hugh was interrupting him, as if his mind was engaged on other, more pressing matters. Hugh, again, had the feeling it was an act. ‘Ah yes, mate, come in,’ pretending he had completely forgotten, and could only now vaguely recall, asking Lynne to summon him.
Seated next to his desk was a woman Hugh had met before, but hardly knew.
‘You know Kim,’ Russell said.
‘Yes. Hi.’ It was the woman Russell claimed to have made love to a few weeks ago, the incident that caused Lynne to become jealous. She smiled at him. It was a feeble, uneasy spasm, as if she was a trainee nurse requested to be in attendance while the doctor performed a rectal examination on a patient. Hugh regarded her with little interest. What unsettled him was the fact she worked in Human Resources.
‘Sit down.’ Russell jumped up from behind his desk as he said this, and strode across the room to close the door. Hugh knew then, with absolute certainty, that he wasn’t about to receive good news. The door closed on anything favourable being discussed, shut out any possibility of the US Cavalry riding to his rescue at the last minute. A pay rise or promotion was definitely not on the cards. Although there was an infinitesimal possibility that Russell had closed the door to make such a happy – and unlikely – announcement, it was his demeanour that gave the game away; the grim face and restrained body language like a telegram announcing a death, the closed door like an attempt to keep a prognosis of terminal cancer within the confines of a doctor’s surgery and away from those in the waiting room. Kim was doodling on a pad, patently trying to remove herself to a far away, less awkward place.
‘There’s no good way of putting this, mate.’ Russell lowered himself into his chair behind the desk, hands clenched, eyes down. ‘We’re going to have to let you go.’ He could have been addressing his Mont Blanc pen lying on the desk in front of him. He raised his head and waited for a reaction from Hugh, but there was none – unless looking stunned was a reaction. Like a cancer victim, Hugh wanted to ask how long he had. That was the only question that sprang to mind. But he knew the answer already: his death was to be now, immediate, instant. He didn’t have a week or a month or a year ‘at best’.
Hugh had once heard of someone in the business, probably a creative, being fired, who had jumped up onto the managing director’s desk and urinated all over it. He’d like to do that, but wasn’t certain he was confident enough to carry it off, especially in front of Kim. Anyway, he felt incapable of moving right now. He was winded. He was half aware of Russell fulfilling his legal obligations by saying everything that had to be said in order to make it less likely Hugh would be successful if he took the matter to court. He and Kim would have rehearsed this bit together before summoning him, possibly even fucked while they did so. The gist of it was that Hugh was to receive two months salary, plus owed holiday pay, and was to leave the agency right that day, immediately.
Russell was making what sounded like a closing speech. ‘Sorry it’s come to this, mate. It’s business. Last thing I wanted to do, believe me.’
This is what happened to Fiona, Hugh thought. The only difference is I can’t go to her office and cry. So where can I go and cry?
Russell was looking at Hugh expectantly, as if hoping he might now leave. Hugh cleared his throat, but couldn’t clear his thoughts. He wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure what was applicable. He shifted in his chair. There were newspapers lying on the coffee table and a headline caught his eye: Child’s hand caught in street drain. He knew he wasn’t going to demean himself by begging to keep his job. Although it would have been a waste of time, he was still tempted. Whatever he did say, he had to choose his words carefully. He mustn’t show any sign of weakness or distress. He didn’t want to give Russell that satisfaction.
The managing director looked small and awkward behind his large desk. A second time he said, ‘I’m sorry, mate.’
No, you aren’t, he thought, you don’t give a toss, but he said, ‘May I ask why?’ He weighed up the options of asking ‘Why?’ or ‘May I ask why?’ He chose the latter because those three extra words might possibly make it sound as if he was more relaxed and at ease with the situation.
Russell leant back in his chair, glancing at his watch as he did so. Hugh wanted to say, Don’t worry, this won’t take long, than you can go off for your lunch appointment or your golf club or whatever it is you’re so desperate to do.
‘Course you can. The truth is, as I’m sure you know, we’re going through a rough patch at the moment, and we’re being forced to tighten up our structure.’
‘Make the agency more profitable for the shareholders, is that what you mean, Russell?’
The managing director ignored the sarcasm. ‘We have to consider our shareholders certainly, that’s the reality of any business. More to the point, we can’t afford to continue running at a loss.’
Hugh wanted to say that The Alpha Agency wouldn’t run at a loss if management stopped paying itself massive salaries and bonuses. The two men stared at each other, Hugh with increasing hostility, becoming more and more incensed at how little he deserved to be treated like this. Kim sat at right angles to them both, possibly incapable of either moving or speaking and, like an appendix, serving no obviously useful purpose.
‘I assure you, mate, it’s no reflection on your abilities. Want you to know that I have the greatest respect for what you’ve achieved for The Alpha Agency in your time here. I’m more than happy to give you an excellent reference. You only have to ask.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘With your talents, you’ll have no problem finding another position.’
Hugh thought, This meaningless gibberish has been learnt. He�
��s been told what to say by the Human Resources people, but no one’s told me what to say. I’ve not been given any time to rehearse my lines.
‘The realities of modern business practice mean …’ And he could see Russell trying to recall the words that someone must have suggested to him. During the brief, ensuing silence Hugh wondered what the man understood about modern business practice. The shelves in the corner of the room were full of books on management practice and theory, on Kaizen, Cog’s Ladder, Six Sigma, the Theory of Constraints and Agile Software Development, and Russell may possibly have read every word written by the likes of Alfred Sloan, Henri Fayol and Peter Drucker, but it was as if the head of The Alpha Agency had not yet decided which theory he should adopt – unless, unbeknown to Hugh, there was a book somewhere on those shelves on Chaos and Anarchy in the Business World, or Corporate Kamikaze. They might have been able to explain why the good ship Alpha was floundering rudderless in heavy seas.
The managing director had scrambled together the rest of his thought, ‘The reality is we no longer have a piece of business for you to work on. That’s the reality; now that we’ve lost Bauer.’
Hugh wondered why he said ‘we’ve lost,’ why he didn’t simply cut to the chase and say ‘now that you’ve lost’.
‘If we’d managed (read, “you’d managed”) to hold onto that business or been able to land the international part of the business, it would have been a different story …’ He shrugged, turning down the sides of his mouth as if to say, But that’s life. What can I do? Don’t blame me. If anyone’s to blame it’s you.
‘What happens if we win BMW?’
Russell’s eyes swivelled around the room, as if looking for somewhere to focus on. Perhaps Kim hadn’t told him what to say should that particular eventuality arise.
‘You’ll need people …’
‘If we’re fortunate enough … It’s a long shot … We’d have to run the account without taking on new people –’
‘I’m not exactly a new person, Russell.’
‘We have people, mate, many people who are underutilised at the moment.’
You mean they’re only working sixty hour weeks, and you want them to work eighty.
‘I’ve asked Murray to run the business, if we land it.’ He was attempting to sound managerial. ‘His car experience is without equal. Of course, he’s also run Bauer for years.’
This was news to Hugh. He was under the impression he’d been running the business for the last few years. He could certainly run it better than Murray. But Russell wouldn’t be interested in that. He was only interested in looking after his cronies, and Hugh wasn’t one of them.
‘I’d be surprised if he could run that account alone.’ He immediately regretted saying it, hated himself for saying it. It verged on begging. The reality was there was nothing he could say, no persuasive, irrefutable fact that would persuade Russell to change his mind.
‘We believe he can. But if circumstances change, mate, you’ll be the first person we’ll call.’
Hugh wanted to lash out. He wanted to hit someone, preferably Russell. What was happening to him, what was being done to him was so unfair, yet his feelings had to remain bottled in. He was expected to show restraint. He was expected to behave in a civilised manner. But he couldn’t help expressing some of his frustration, letting Russell know that … well, that he knew.
‘This is because I refused to try and get the agency a copy of the Bauer research, I’m guessing?’
Russell had obviously been warned of that particular legal pitfall. ‘Absolutely not, mate, no way. I can assure you on that account.’ It wasn’t said as if he believed in what he was saying. He turned to Kim for support, and she frowned and nodded her head slowly.
‘It couldn’t have helped my case.’
Russell half smiled. It was virtually a smirk. ‘That’s your opinion, mate, not mine.’
After a moment’s silence, during which Hugh stared at Russell and Russell stared hard at the pad on his desk, he asked, ‘Is that all?’
The managing director nodded without looking at him. Hugh stood up to leave. Russell jumped to his feet, relieved that the end of the ordeal was in sight and he could now, from being out of his depth, return to the management shallows where he felt so much more at ease. Now he could stop trying to look sympathetic and stop being careful what he said. He handed an envelope to Hugh. ‘Your cheque and termination terms are in there.’ Then he offered his hand. ‘Good luck, mate.’
Hugh took the envelope, ignoring both the hand and the comment, and left the room. He was pleased that he hadn’t shaken Russell’s hand. Petty maybe, but it made a point. Lynne, head down at her desk, watched him walk past from beneath her eyebrows. She knew. He was suddenly a non-person. Dead man walking. He no longer belonged. He was now a visitor to the building, not an employee of the company. He passed people, and they were no longer his colleagues. He had no business being in the office, he was an outsider. He felt everyone was either staring at him or taking great pains not to see him. He felt conspicuous. It was as if they all knew – even though he told himself this was unlikely.
There was no one he could tell, no one who would be genuinely interested in what had happened, or even concerned about his welfare. If he told Geoff Wickes, he’d be interested, but only because he could then rush down the corridor and spread the word: ‘Hey, guys, have you heard? They’ve let Hughsy go.’ He couldn’t even call Kate. She’d always told him what an awful company Alpha was and how they’d use him for as long as it suited them then kick him out, and now she’d been proven right. He couldn’t have borne it if she’d said, ‘I told you so.’
He wanted to speak to his son. He wanted to tell Tim what a cruel, horrible world he was growing up in and apologise for bringing him into it. And how he mustn’t become like these awful people when he was older, that he had to treat others in the same way that he would like to be treated. Tim was too young to understand, but Hugh wanted to listen to his guileless voice and wrap himself in his little boy’s innocence and love.
He sat in his office. One or two people dropped by: the word was spreading. Sarah, his assistant, was one of the first. She burst into the room and burst into tears – ‘It’s so unfair. You’re the best,’ and she hugged him then ran from his office. He found it hard to talk, and maybe people sensed this because no one stayed long. Paul Skirrow came and shook his hand and said Russell was mad letting him go. He also said some people wanted to have a drink with him in the pub after work, and that he’d drive Hugh and his box of possessions to Central Station after that. It was a small gesture, but the thoughtfulness behind it moved Hugh. He changed his mind and called Kate, but she wasn’t in. He didn’t leave a message. As a last resort, he called his mother in England. It was early, but she’d always been an early riser. She was surprised to hear from him. ‘Is everything all right, Hugh?’
He answered yes, even though it wasn’t, because he knew she was asking about Kate and Tim. She had already heard that Kate had moved out.
‘How’s my grandson?’
‘He’s wonderful, mum, growing by the day. You must come out and see him.’
This proved to be an invitation for her to list all of her ailments, which seemed to grow every time he spoke to her and most of which seemed to involve her bowels, so making it impossible for her to travel such a distance. ‘Even getting down to the shops is difficult for me, Hugh. And the social welfare people aren’t interested so long as you can still stand up. That’s the way it is now. If you don’t have any money no one wants to help you, not even the welfare people.’
Finally, when she at last allowed him to get round to the reason he’d called, she said, ‘I’m sure it’s for the best. Something else will come along. Don’t concern yourself.’
He went to the pub for a few drinks. Only five people, including Sarah, Geoff and Alison, turned up. Murray had the day off, and Hugh wondered if he’d known in advance and had felt it would be too awkward being in the
agency when the axe fell on his subordinate. Afterwards, Paul drove him to Central, and insisted on shaking hands with him again. As he entered the Grand Concourse, he felt like Captain Oates walking off into the storm.
13
For a few days he allowed himself to sit at home and wallow in self-pity. He licked his wounds and hid from a world that had so soundly beaten him. It was a conscious decision. On one of those days, when he was feeling particularly low, his whole body racked by pain and bewilderment, he wept.
The first weekend wasn’t too unbearable because he could see his fellow office workers around the locality, in their gardens, in the shops and cafes or down at the beach. For those two days he was almost fooled into thinking life was as it should be, despite the absence of his wife and son.
Some time during the following week he decided he couldn’t afford to stay around the house and mope. The emptiness of the place depressed him too much. He was surrounded by a staid, tedious world of mothers with strollers and shopping bags, and old people from the home down the road. He knew that the fun, excitement and matters of importance, life – was all happening elsewhere. So, on his second Monday without work, he decided to make a real effort and start afresh. He forced himself to get up at his usual time – 5.30 – and shave, shower and breakfast as if everything was normal, as if he was about to set off for work. But, of course, nothing was normal. To start with, he didn’t put on a suit. What was the point when he wasn’t going to see anyone and wasn’t going to attend any meetings? Nor did he walk to the railway station. What was the point when he had nowhere to go? Instead of those normal activities, he therefore made a second cup of coffee and stared out of the sitting room window. He sat and waited, even though there was nothing to wait for. There was little else to do; he didn’t have a newspaper to read.
At ten o’clock he rang a couple of headhunters. He didn’t call them at nine because that might have reeked of desperation. He made appointments to go and see them. One was encouraging, saying, ‘Oh yes, I’ve heard of you,’ then discouraging, saying, ‘Sadly there are a lot of people like you on the market now, Hugh, so don’t get your hopes up.’ She effectively squashed any optimism he might have had. He guessed she was trying to make sure he was realistic about his chances of getting work, but wondered at her methods. He really had no idea there were others in the same situation as himself, never having paid any attention to the job market when he’d been employed. He filled in the rest of the morning by bringing his résumé up to date. He decided not to call any advertising agencies yet. He expected people would soon hear about him being ‘available’, the advertising world being so small, and would call him. He felt it would be more acceptable if he was not seen to be actively seeking work.
